


Ever Long

by anoceannothingfloatson



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Gen, Illness, Minor Character Death, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoceannothingfloatson/pseuds/anoceannothingfloatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin is not in Ered Luin when Fíli is born. He does not get to hold the babe until he is already a week old but he swears he will remember that moment for as long as he lives: the comforting weight of Fíli in his arms, the downy soft hair under his lips as he presses a kiss to the babe’s head and the newborn’s shrill cries that show proof of healthy lungs. He feels love and pride fill his heart and spread through his being and he knows he will do anything to protect the small child he holds.</p><p> He knows that the road to adulthood is full of grief but also happiness and love. He just hopes he is strong enough to help his sister-sons on their way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ever Long

**Author's Note:**

> So, I’m meant to be revising. I’m not. Here’s my first offering to the Hobbit fandom, I do hope you enjoy! I kind of jumped on the bandwagon with the whole baby!Fili and baby!Kili thing but, hopefully, added my own (angsty) twists to it. Also, I've tried to make having young children as realistic as possible. They're not all sunshine and rainbows and cuteness, they're hard work. That being said, I do hope you like this story as I've worked very hard on it.

Thorin is not in Ered Luin when Fíli is born. Instead he is leagues away in a village of man discussing the newly-made trade agreement that the humans have failed to keep to. He knew that his sister’s time was close and yet he had to carry out his duty as king to the exiled dwarves of Erebor. He regrets his position for what is not the first time in his life and finds it hard to concentrate on talks of trade and pestilence. Balin, his good friend and closest advisor, is sympathetic and allows Thorin’s attention to wander to the babe due to be born in his absence. This child is the first of Dís’ brood that he does not hold at birth and he lets himself mourn memories lost.

 He does not get to hold Fíli until he is already a week old but he swears he will remember that moment for as long as he lives: the comforting weight of Fíli in his arms, the downy soft hair under his lips as he presses a kiss to the babe’s head and the newborn’s shrill cries that show proof of healthy lungs. He feels love and pride fill his heart and spread through his being and he knows he will do anything to protect the small child he holds.

 “You have done well, sister.” He says as he reluctantly hands Fíli back to his mother. “He is a fine boy and a credit to the line of Durin.”

 “If only for his lungs and pig-headedness.” Dís says with a fond smile as she settles the squirming Fíli to her breast to feed. “Sleep has been hard to come by this last week, brother, I do hope you will remember your duties as uncle.”

 “I know you will not let me forget.” Thorin replies with a smile.

 He remains at Dís’ house until late that evening, whiling away the afternoon with his sister and her family. Míli returns from the market a few hours before the evening meal with Thrís and Gidís in tow. The girls are delighted to see their uncle after the last few weeks of separation and both are keen to show their brother off to Thorin. Gidís, especially, seems enamoured with the baby and her peat coloured eyes shine with love as she tickles Fíli’s feet and kisses his cheeks while he lays in his basket.

 “Isn’t he perfect, uncle?” She asks.

“He is.” Thorin agrees.

 After the evening meal he sits by the fire with Fíli cradled in one arm, Gidís perched on his knee and Thrís on the floor by his feet. His oldest niece reads to them from the book Thorin had gifted her with that evening and he slips them both sweetmeats when Dís is not looking.

 It hits him in that moment that he is happy and it makes him remember a time when he thought he would never know happiness again. Dís’ smile is knowing that night.

 “It is amazing what hurts the love of a child can cure.” She says to him as returns he the girls to their home a few days later after their lessons.

 He doesn’t have the strength of will to give her a reply.

 That summer is a long and prosperous one. New trade routes with the surrounding villages of men are established, both races’ mistrust of one another diminishing in the face of time and mutual need, and a large deposit of iron ore, the largest one yet, is discovered in the mountain. The forges that following autumn are fit to burst with smiths and Thorin is proud to take his place among his people as they craft the metal into weapons and tools in order to fill outstanding orders and sell in the villages of men.  

 On the eve of Durin’s day the first vein of gold is found deep within the mountains and Thorin is filled with pride at the accomplishments of his people. From this precious metal, which he takes only a small amount, Thorin fashions hair clasps for his nieces and sister. When he presents his gifts to them, Gidís’ thoughts are only for her brother as has become the custom for the young dwarf lass, “it is the colour of Fíli’s hair!”

 “Why is it that Fíli’s hair is gold, uncle, when our hair is like coal?” Thrís asks him and Thorin thinks he can see his mother in the thoughtful girl before him.

 “His hair is a sign,” He tells his nieces, repeating his sister’s oft repeated words, “of the good fortunes of our people returning.”

 And it is so. The winter is short and mild, the bitter winds that haunted them in the years previous nothing more than an unpleasant memory, and spring blooms brightly in its wake. Thorin has very little time to enjoy the beautiful weather with his family as his duties keep him busy and he often has to travel to the villages of man.

 He visits the Iron Hills that summer and as such misses Thrís, with an intellect far surpassing her twenty years, read her way through her parents’ collection of books and her subsequent quest to discover other things to read in order to sate her quick mind. He also misses Gidís’ first day in the forge and Fíli’s first picnic in the hills surrounding their village.

 When he returns during the autumn he barely recognises the babe he left behind. Fíli’s hair has thickened and his cheeks are rounder than Thorin remembers them. He has also mastered the technique of hair pulling and Thorin is proud of his firm grip even if his scalp protests the treatment. He is constantly babbling away to himself in a language that only he seems to understand, though Gidís claims to be an expert on her brother’s ramblings, and he crawls after his sisters and demands their attention. He is the very image of a healthy dwarven babe - loud, strong and happy - and Thorin thinks he could not love him more even if he were his own son.

 The girls keep him busy that winter, cold as it is, the snows deeper and the wind more biting than the previous year, as he instructs Gidís in the forge and oversees Thrís’ first independent work with silver, a mighty feat for a dwarf her age: a pair of matching hair clasps.

 “For Fíli once he’s grown,” she explains as she presents her work to her parents once it is completed, “gold would be lost in his hair.”

 “A mighty gift.” Thorin tells her, resting a hand on her shoulder, and her face lights up at his praise. “He will wear them with pride when the time comes for him to wear them.”

 The hair clasps are put in a small cloth bag and stored in Dís’ drawers for safe keeping and Thrís glows with pride while her younger sister simmers with jealousy.

 Spring is marred with spats between the girls, both of them fighting for the affections of their brother despite the love he showered them with in equal amounts, and with word of pestilence in the outlying villages of the valleys that surrounded the Blue Mountains. Summer once again is long but this year the heat is draining and the rains do not come in their usual volume in the autumn months. The dwarves’ meagre harvest fails and those of the villages they trade with suffer a similar fate. Trade is more difficult that year and Thorin’s people are forced to rely on the stores they have built up in the previous years to survive another harsh winter.

 In this time Fíli learns his first words and takes his first steps. He is already adept at the art of bending other’s will to his own and, as one of the youngest inhabitants of Ered Luin and Thorin’s heir, he is spoiled terribly. He has more toys than any other child he knows, though he much prefers to play with his sisters, and if Thorin isn’t sneaking him honeyed treats then it is someone else. Thorin has trouble denying his nephew anything and he knows Míli is worse than he, though, his sisters spoil him worst of all. It is only Dís who is ever able to say the word ‘no’ to her son and then she is treated with smiles and hugs until she relents.

 Another year passes and Thorin finds there is little joy in his world save for sister and her family. The harvests are poor once again and there is little to be traded for there are months where nothing of any great value is found by the dwarven mining teams. Though his people do not starve, their stores had been set up for years such as these, they have to reduce their usual consumption. The children of Ered Luin never go hungry, however, Thorin makes sure of that.

 There is further talk that year, too, of the pestilence that rages in the warmest months. It has not yet made it to those villages closest to theirs but Thorin still worries for his people. He knows that his folk are hardier than the race of man, less likely to succumb to the same illnesses, but he worries all the same for there is nothing he can do in the face of sickness.

 Thorin almost drives himself to exhaustion in search of villages who have spare enough food to trade with them for what little they have. He spends weeks at a time away from Ered Luin and as such misses most of Fíli’s fourth year on this earth. His nieces, Gidís especially, are keen to fill in him on everything that he misses in the increasingly lengthy periods he spends away from them. Gidís always cries when he informs her that he must leave them once more and Fíli clings to his legs and begs him in that sweet voice of his not to leave. Thorin is grateful that he does not have to witness the tantrums his nephew throws on his depature. It is only Thrís, his beautiful and proud Thrís, that does not give into the tears that shine in her eyes. She knows her uncle’s absence is necessary even if she does not like it. Thorin thinks she would have made a worthy leader for the dwarves of Erebor if she had only been born male.

 That year is once again difficult for the occupants of Ered Luin. Food becomes scarce and the dwarves are forced to dig deeper and deeper into the mountain to search for ore and precious metals with which to shape in their forges and trade for food.

 Thorin is not present when, at the onset of spring, just after the celebrations for the fifth anniversary of Fíli’s birth, Dís announces that she is once again with child. He receives letters from both Thrís and Dís that tell him the good news and Thorin swears by all that he is that he will be present for this child’s birth in the midst of the autumn months.

 Summer has only just begun when word reaches Thorin of a tunnel collapse within the mountains that has resulted in the death of five of his people, including his brother-in-law.

 Thorin does not wait until the conclusion of talks, leaving Balin to act in his stead, before rushing back to his sister’s side. His heart is swollen with grief for her and her children. Dís has already lost so much and the children are much too young to have death touch them, especially when their loss is one so close to them.

 Dís is strong, so much stronger than Thorin has ever given her credit for, and she is composed when Thorin first sees her three days after the tunnel collapse. Her eyes are red and there are bags under her eyes from the nights she has spent tossing and turning since her husband’s death but she offers him a smile and a small meal of bread and hard cheese. His eyes fall on the swell of her stomach and grief fills him for the little one who will never meet their sire.

 He spends hours with his nieces, holding Gidís close and encouraging Thrís to let go of her grief, and he distracts Fíli from his mother and answers his questions on the whereabouts of his absent father. Fíli is still too young to understand, being only a toddler, and Thorin does what he can to comfort the boy through his crying fits.

 During the night, when the children have all gone to bed, he holds his younger sister in his arms while she cries and bites back screams of grief.

 “Why, Thorin?” She asks him night after night. “Why?”

 He never has an answer for her.

 Days and weeks pass slowly. The summer sun is sweltering and there is little respite to be found anywhere but the cool mines of the mountain. Foods supplies reach a drastic low and Thorin goes to bed with a rumbling stomach more often than not.

 Balin returns to Ered Luin at summer’s zenith with nothing to show for their efforts and with him he brings word of the pestilence that is rampaging through the villages surrounding theirs. It seems to be a cruel sickness, striking down both young and old without care, and whole villages have been left empty in its wake. He fears what will happen if the pestilence reaches Ered Luin and yet he knows there is nothing he can do to stop it as no one knows how the sickness is spread.

 Thorin is in talks with Balin and the rest of his advisors about forbidding outsiders to enter Ered Luin, even those willing to trade food, when word reaches them that the first dwarf has fallen ill.

 It is one of the settlement’s tailors who is the first victim. He starts with a fever so fierce that it robs him of speech and strength. It spans the course of days before boils and blisters spring up under his armpits and on his neck and liquid starts to collect in his lungs. The tailor is dead by end of the week and a dozen or more cases arise before the illness has run its course. It is only the matter of a fortnight until the settlement is overcome.

 It is always the fever that signals the beginning of the sickness, the healers notice that pattern immediately, though it takes them a little longer to discover that only those who develop boils die and that is only because in all those who have fallen ill there have been but two out of hundreds who have shown signs of recovery. It is understood that to catch the pestilence is a certain death.

 It is Fíli that first falls ill in the house of Dís.

 The fever starts one afternoon and by the time that Thorin is able to make it to his sister’s home that evening the babe is nonsensical. He cries and cries for his father and beats his small fists against the straw mattress he rests on and he kicks his feet until he is exhausted and slips into a fitful sleep.

 Dís is beside herself with worry and insists on sitting up with Fíli through the night. She puts him in her bed and sits at his side, stroking his sweat soaked hair from his face and trying to force water down his throat. Thrís and Gidís make broth for their brother, following the strict instructions their mother gives them, and they pace and fret and Thorin does not know what to do to soothe them, especially as his own fear and worry is raging so fiercely.

 Nobody sleeps well that night, if at all, and as the sun rises there is no sign of Fíli’s fever abating. Worse still is the warmth that radiates from Thrís’ brow and the sheen of sweat that covers her skin.

 Thorin forces her back to bed and reads to her through the day from her favourite book as her fever worsens. She sips from the cup of water that Thorin holds to her mouth but does not eat the broth that is offered to her, claiming that it makes her stomach turn, and he is at a lost as to what to do.

 He is exhausted but he does not leave Thrís’ side, just as Dís does not leave Fíli’s, and he feels the same darkness grow within him that he felt at the loss of Erebor and the deaths of his grandfather, father and brother. He is helpless to do anything and it is perhaps that which is worst.

 This illness is not a foe he can defeat nor is it a leader of man that he can barter with. There is no cure for this sickness and Thorin knows he is going to lose those that he holds dearest.

 Before she descends into delirium Thrís asks, “am I going to die, uncle?”

 Her blue eyes are frightened and tears are streaming down her cheeks but she locks eyes with Thorin and grasps one of his hands, tightly.

 She asks again, “am I going to die?”

 He wants to tell her ‘no’ but he knows he cannot lie to her. He has never lied to this girl, his precious sister-daughter, but he does not have the strength to tell her the truth. Instead he scoops her up and cradles her to his chest and holds her like he hasn’t since she was a babe. She has been too proud to accept affection such as this for many years while he forgot that she was still a child, still so young. She threads her fingers into his hair and sobs until she is exhausted and Thorin does not let her go.

 Balin visits on the fourth day of Fíli’s illness, the third of Thrís’, just as Thorin is tucking Gidís into the bed next to her sister, and relieves Dís from her son’s side. She joins Thorin in the girls’ room and strokes her daughters’ hair from their faces and wets their skin with a damp cloth. She does not speak as she works and there are no tears in her eyes. She does not give into grief until she has finished and comes to stand by Thorin’s side.

 “I am going to lose my children.” She says. “I am doomed to lose everyone that I love.”

 “You are not doomed.” He tells her and he finishes, silently, ‘I am.’

 He places a hand on her shoulder and he is surprised by the heat that he feels even through his sister’s clothes, “Dís, are you well?”

 “Do not waste your thought on me,” she snaps, “when my children lay dying before you.”

 But then she faints and Thorin is not quick enough to catch her.

 The next few hours pass by in a blur as the healers that can be spared flood the house. They give Fíli to Thorin to hold and monitor as his fever has not grown any worse and there is no sign of the boils that signify the illness has progressed to the next stage. They confine him to the main room and he sits by the empty hearth with an unconscious Fíli in his arms, swaying back and forth in the rocking chair as he had done when Fíli and the girls had all been babes.

 Balin sits with his nieces as Oin tends to the boils that mar their young bodies. The pestilence has attacked Gidís with a vigour that has left her fading fast. Thorin fears that the girl will be in Mahal’s halls before the day is through.

 He wishes he could be with her but he dare not leave Fíli. Or, at least, that is what he tells himself to excuse the cowardice in his heart that cannot bear to see another loved one pass from this earth. He prays to Mahal the Maker for a miracle, that his sister, nieces and nephew might be spared, and it is then that he hears his sister’s scream and his heart stops.

 “What in Durin’s name is going on?” Thorin demands when a healer comes to him, standing and clutching Fíli to his chest.

 There is silence as the healer answers, “Lady Dís’ illness, we must… We are preparing to deliver the child.”

“That cannot be.” Thorin says. “It is too soon. The babe-.”

 “The child is putting too much strain on her.” The healer tells him. “She needs her strength if she is to make it through the sickness.”

 Thorin wants to scream. He wants to tell the healer that none of them will make it through this illness and that they are all condemned to death but he doesn’t. He is their leader and he knows he must be strong so instead he nods and speaks around the lump in his throat, “do what you can to save my sister.”

 The healer dips his head and disappears and Thorin sinks back into the rocking chair. Fíli awakens momentarily and fusses in his arms and Thorin manages to get him to drink a little. The child fights the pull of sleep after that, sensing his uncle’s distress, and he cries and pulls at Thorin’s hair until Thorin manages to lull him to sleep with his gentle rocking and the humming of a song his own mother had sung to him many years before.

 It is perhaps only half an hour later, when Fíli is finally fully asleep, that Balin joins him by the hearth. The look on his face is grave and his eyes are wet with tears and Thorin knows.

 “Gidís?” He asks.

 “Aye, laddie.” He answers. “And I don’t think Thrís has all that much time left. Give the boy to me and go sit with her.”

 He does just that and it is only when the last breath leaves Thrís’ lips that he allows himself to cry. He draws the girls’ cooling bodies to his and buries his nose in their hair, breathing in the familiar smell, and cries.

 The pain that engulfs him is fierce and overwhelming and he doesn’t know how to make it stop. If he wants to for he knows he is being punished but for what crime he does not know. He hates himself then for not being able to save them, for not being able to keep them safe, and he cries until he can cry no more.

 Afterwards he settles the girls into bed, tucking the covers around them and smoothing the hair on their heads, so that it looks like they are sleeping. He does not let his mind trick him that they are.

 He returns to the main room and finds Balin in the rocking chair with Fíli held tightly in his arms. There are tears rolling down his friend’s face and he can see the pain on the old dwarf’s face. He has known the girls since they were in the womb.

 Thorin wants to speak to him, have Balin speak to him in return, so that they can fill the silence that stretches between them. The house is too quiet, too shrouded in death, but he cannot bring himself to make a sound. He doesn’t have to.

 “Thorin?” It is Oin who speaks, joining them in the main room. There is a silent and unmoving bundle in his arms. “The babe.”

 “How is my sister?” He asks and he does not look at the dead thing in Oin’s arms. “Does she live?”

 “Aye, she lives but only just. There were complications that we did not expect… I’m sorry, Thorin, I fear we must prepare for the worst.” Oin tells him, sorrow and fatigue colouring his tone, and he moves to stand at Thorin’s side. “But the babe, Thorin… It is still alive by some miracle, though I don’t know for how much longer. You should hold it while it passes if its mother cannot.”  

 “It is not already dead?” Thorin asks and he does not feel hope, only despair.

 Oin shakes his head and Thorin accepts the bundle when offered to him. The baby cocooned in the cloth is tiny and pale and weighs not even half of what his sisters had at their birth. Its chest barely rises and falls, each breath more shallow than the last, and Thorin knows it is doomed to death. He wills Mahal to take the baby into his care and ease its suffering.

 He will lie to Dís if he ever gets chance to tell her of the babe. He will tell her of Míli’s lips and their father’s nose and never let her know how otherworldly it appears, having been born so early and suffering from the same malnutrition as its mother. He has never seen a dwarven babe the likes of this and hopes he will never see another. It is a pitiful sight and Thorin feels his failure to safeguard his family, the people he loves, keenly.  

 He presses a kiss to the babe’s head as its breath slows and readies himself to hand the bundle back to Oin. Fíli is awake in Balin’s arms and crying for Thorin and he wants to do nothing more than take his nephew in his arms and shelter him from the cruelty of the world.

 But then the door to Dís home opens and a figure the size of the man enters. He stoops slightly, his frame too big for the homestead, as he joins the dwarves gathered around the hearth and the expression on his face is troubled.

 “Is the hour already so late?” He asks and his blue eyes scan the faces of his companions, taking in their grief and exhaustion.

 “Why are you here, Gandalf?” Thorin’s tone is harsh. He does not have the strength to deal with the wizard and his riddles this day when the loss of his nieces lay so heavily on his heart. He does not like to think of his sister laying in her deathbed and the rapidly fading babe in his arms.

 “I must speak with Oin.” Gandalf tells him and the two of them move to the corner of the room and speak in hushed whispers, drowned out by Fíli’s continued crying.

 Thorin cannot bring himself to care about the wizard and his mysteries. The baby in his arms is losing its grip on life and it will not be long before it passes into Mahal’s care where its sisters and father are waiting, where its mother will more than likely join them. Thorin whispers to it in Khuzdul and rests his forehead against its tiny one, the babe’s skin cool under his own despite the heat of the evening.

 “What are you doing?” Gandalf snaps at him as the babe takes its last breath. “Give him here.”

 “It’s too late.” Thorin says and his voice sounds cold even to his own ears. “It’s dead.”

 “Don’t be a fool.” Gandalf tells him and takes the child from Thorin’s arms.

 He moves to sit on a wooden chair that is too small for him and places the baby on his lap, unfolding the cloth that had covered its nakedness, and rubs his hand on the still chest, muttering under his breath in a language that Thorin does not recognise.

 “What are you doing?” Thorin asks, anger beginning to bubble in the pit of his stomach. “The babe is dead, Gandalf, its suffering is through. Do not force any more upon it. Mahal knows we have all seen enough pain and misery this day.”

 Gandalf does not give him an answer and Thorin does not have the energy to argue with him anymore. Instead he takes Fíli from Balin’s arms and soothes the little one. Fíli clings to him much as Thrís did at the beginning of her illness and he has to fight back the tears that suddenly cloud his vision.

 “Uncle.” Fíli mumbles over and over, his high-pitched voice slurred with exhaustion and fever. “Uncle, where’s Da?.”

 “Hush now, Fíli.” Thorin whispers and it is then he sees the boils on his nephew’s neck. His heart stops beating and the breath freezes in his lungs.

 Balin, who is stood closest to him, follows Thorin’s gaze and his face falls, “oh, Mahal…”

 Thorin staggers to the rocking chair and collapses into it. Fíli continues to cry but Thorin finds he has no more tears left to shed. There is only an emptiness within him that grows and grows and threatens to swallow him whole. His family are being ripped from him and there is nothing he can do.

 He does not hear Gandalf ask for a fire to be lit and he does not feel its heat once it is roaring in the hearth. There is nothing but the emptiness and Fíli. It is as if the rest of the world does not exist.

 He does not see Oin set water to boil over the fire nor does he see Gandalf move the chair closer to the hearth and hold the babe close to the flames to warm it. He does not see Balin retreat to Dís’ room to sit with her nor the thick draught that Oin prepares with the herbs given to him by Gandalf.

 He knows nothing but Fíli and his sweat slicked face, his blue eyes bright with fever and his golden hair soaked through and clinging to his head. The boy is beautiful even like this and Thorin works to memorise everything about him for he knows he is going to lose him too soon.

 Oin forces the boy to drink a foul smelling brew at one point and it takes Thorin nearly an hour to soothe Fíli enough for him to fall back asleep once more.

 Time seems to lose all meaning.

 The fire in the hearth never goes out and Fíli does not wake except for those few occasions when Oin supplies him with more draught. Thorin does not eat, he does not drink and he does not sleep.

 Three days pass in this manner, though he hardly notices, but on the fourth he sees something that steals the breath from his lungs. The boil on Fíli’s neck has disappeared.

 Fever fades from the toddler’s face in the hours after that and he wakes up grumpy and hungry and Thorin feeds him from the bowl of broth that Balin hands him. He does not eat much but when he falls back into sleep it is restful. Within days Fíli is back on his feet.

 Thorin’s return to the wider world follows Fíli’s progress. He is filled with shame at his loss of control and yet he does not see blame in the faces of his friends. Balin tells him that Dís has yet to waken and that his nieces have been buried at their father’s side and guilt makes his stomach twist and turn. He spends hours at his sister’s side and visits his nieces’ graves and begs for their forgiveness. Misery eats at him but he does not let it consume him. He has a duty to his people and to Fíli and he will see it through if it is the last thing he does.

 He throws himself back into the running of the settlement, picking up the pieces of what remains. He learns that there is not a single family that has been spared the devastating effects of the sickness. The youngest and oldest members of the community have been hit hardest and Thorin mourns with his people. He thinks of his nieces almost constantly and their pale, dead faces haunt his dreams.

 Fíli asks for them and his mother constantly. He does not understand when Thorin tells him that his sisters have passed into Mahal’s care to be with their father and that his mother is too ill for him to visit. He throws tantrums- he kicks and screams and hits and bites- and Thorin does not know what to do for him. He cannot bring Thrís and Gidís back and he cannot make Dís well again. He cannot even provide enough food to keep the boy’s stomach from rumbling.

 Balin and Dwalin end up watching Fíli when he has no time or his patience runs thin and he is more grateful to them than they will ever know. Dwalin distracts the toddler with toys and games and Balin tells stories of happier times.

 Even Gandalf, in his almost permanent position by the roaring fire, the silent and listless infant cradled in one hand, tries to distract Fíli from his misery. Whenever he smokes his pipe he blows smoky figures from his lips in the shape of dragons and birds and smiles when Fíli chases after them and tries to catch them in his small hands.  

 The wizard’s presence irritates Thorin but he cannot make him leave. After saving Fíli and so many other dwarves’ lives with the herbs he had given Oin, Thorin knows he owes Gandalf his life. Yet he cannot help but grow frustrated at his continued efforts to keep the babe, a boy he has learnt, alive. It feels cruel to him, to force the babe to stay in a world in which he is too small to survive and his family too ill equipped to care for him.

 “You will understand my actions one day, Thorin Oakenshield.” Gandalf tells him whenever he catches Thorin casting him dark looks. “And you will be grateful for them.”  

 He has not held the babe since the day he was born and he does not want to. Now that he has seen more of the baby, seen how truly tiny and fragile he is, Thorin is frightened that he will hurt him. His hands are used to swords, hammers and heavy, healthy children. They are not delicate enough to handle a baby so small.

 Fíli shows little interest for his brother. He is preoccupied with thoughts of his sisters and mother and father and does not understand that the thing the big person by fire is holding should be of importance to him. Thorin is glad. He does not think he can stand to see the boy hurt any more when the babe finally passes. It is better that he does not know.

 Dís awakens a week and a half after her son. She is weak and confused and asks for her children and sobs, brokenly, every time that Thorin tells her that Thrís and Gidís have joined their father in Mahal’s halls. Not even seeing Fíli, healthy even if gaunt from illness and hunger, is enough to raise her spirits. She spends hours in bed, weeping or staring into space, and claims exhaustion when Thorin or anyone else tries to rouse her from her melancholic state. She does not ask about the babe.

 He grows angry at her as time passes, days and then weeks, but he does not let his frustration grow. He understands her loss and shares in her grief. He knows just how much it is that she has lost and he fears for her. He does not want to see her succumb to her grief and become mad like their father and yet there is very little that he can do. He sits with her for hours and stays with her when Fíli visits. He tells her of her second son and lies to her about his strength and health. She does not ask to see him. She does not speak at all. She is wasting away before his eyes and he is helpless to stop it.

 Autumn is foul that year. Cold and wet and miserable and yet there is hope. Huge wagons arrive one night while the settlements sleeps and are gone by the time morning comes leaving behind huge stores of grain, smoked meats and cheeses, dried fruits and nuts. Thorin never discovers where this food comes from, though he knows by the twinkle in Gandalf’s eye that he played his part. He just hopes it did not come from the elves.

 The food is more than enough to last their diminished population through the long, bleak winter and, as much as the idea of charity irks him, Thorin knows that without it his people would have surely died. He is grateful. Even more so when Fíli’s cheeks begin to flesh out once more and a healthy shine returns to his golden hair.

 Dís improves through that winter. It is a slow process but as the months pass he begins to see more of his beloved little sister in her and not the wraith that grief had made her. She clings to Fíli and indulges his every wish, doting upon him and letting him sleep in her bed during the freezing nights. She plays games with him and tells him stories of Erebor to lull him to sleep. His questions about his sisters, however, are always left unanswered and, as weeks pass, he stops asking them, their memories slowly slipping from his young mind.     

 Thorin hates his sister for this. He does not want to forget Thrís and Gidís. He wants to talk about them, share stories of them, and remind Fíli of his sisters and tell him that they loved him very much. Yet he dare not act against his sister’s wishes for fear of causing her to slip back into her grief.

 He wants her to get to know her new son, though, now that he is sure that the babe’s grip on life will not fail but he does not know how to go about it. Gandalf is, of course, no help. He stays with them throughout the winter, feeding the babe a draught of his own making and keeping him warm by the fire, but he offers no advice as to how Thorin should help his sister.

 “Patience, Master Dwarf,” is the only thing that the wizard will utter when Thorin seeks counsel.

 Balin and Dwalin seem to take residence in his sister’s house that winter and he is grateful for their presence. They continue to care for Fíli and both spend large amounts of time with Dís, working on restoring her to the dwarf she once was, but they are as cautious of the babe as Thorin is and do not offer to help care for him.

 Thorin knows he has to let go of his fears, for the babe’s sake, and as spring approaches he learns from Gandalf how to make the draught that replaces mother’s milk and how he should feed it to him. He learns how he should rub the babe’s small chest when he has trouble breathing and how best to keep him warm.

 He also learns things about his nephew that the wizard does not teach him. He is still tiny, much smaller than any dwarven babe Thorin has ever known, and weighs little in his uncle’s large hands but he is stubborn. He does not settle to sleep like his sisters did or let himself be soothed in the same manner as Fíli once had. He is restless and squirms in Thorin’s grasp, only succumbing to his exhaustion when being held against his uncle’s chest so that the beating of Thorin’s heart echoes in his ears, and yet does not cry out. Instead his face twists, his eyes clench shut and lips tremble as his face reddens and his hands curl into fists and Thorin finds himself smiling at the babe’s silent tantrums, his heart a little lighter.

 Fíli’s tantrums are not so silent. He has become spoilt by his mother’s undivided affection and is indulged far too often by those who no longer have their own children to care for. Bifur, a cousin of his nephews’ late father, crafts him extravagant wooden toys and Oin uses the last of his honey to cover nuts and dried fruit for Fíli’s enjoyment. Gandalf tells him stories of Hobbits and second breakfasts and turns a blind eye to the majority of Fíli’s bad behaviour, only rebuking the child when he is in danger of harming his brother. He does not understand that the babe is not a toy and often tries to grab him or play with him and screams and shouts when he is told he cannot. He becomes jealous when Thorin begins to spend more time with the infant and grows resentful when Thorin will not allow him to crawl into his lap when he is holding the babe.

 More and more often he finds himself having to be stern with Fíli when others are not. He does not enjoy it but knows it will do Fíli no good, as his heir, to become pampered and spoilt. Though he is still a small child, Thorin knows he has to act now to instil a sense of responsibility and grace in his nephew. The pestilence has impressed upon him the fragility and unpredictability of life, just as the loss of Erebor had almost a hundred years before, and he must make sure that Fíli will be ready to take him his place if anything were to happen to him.

 Dís is forever angry at him, though, he does not truly understand why. He guesses that part of it is to do with Fíli, that she does not approve of his being strict, and another part is the need to have someone to blame for the deaths of her daughters. She snipes and snaps at him constantly and he bears her ill-treatment without comment. It is better that she is angry than too caught in her sadness to even get out of bed. It is because of this that he even allows her to ignore the existence of her youngest son during the freezing winter months when she is still recovering her strength and mourning her daughters.

 With the arrival of spring and Gandalf’s announcement that he will soon take his leave, however, Thorin is forced to act. He alone cannot care for the babe with his responsibilities as leader demanding that he travel to the villages of men once the weather is good enough and he cannot afford to play along with his sister’s fantasies any longer.

 Balin takes Fíli for a walk at the first smashed plate and Gandalf makes himself scarce at the second. The babe is by the fire in the cradle that Bifur and his cousin Bofur had crafted especially for him, face red and mouth open as he cries silently. Their evening meal, a light stew, half-eaten, cools on the table.

 Dís, too, is red-faced and there are tears in her eyes that she does not let fall. She wields a ladle in her hand as if it is a war hammer even as she gropes blindly at the table for something else to throw.

 “You must see sense, Dís,” Thorin insists, gaze caught halfway between his sister and the cradle. “He is your son!”

 “That _thing_ is not my son!” Dís bellows and she launches a bowl of stew at his head that only misses by an inch. “I have no son but Fíli!”

 “Enough of this madness!” He roars, his reserves of patience finally empty. “Enough of these fantasies, sister! You are the babe’s mother-.”

 “No! I am not mother to _that_. My- my children are strong and healthy, true heirs of Durin. They’re strong, Thorin, and too young…” The ladle drops from her hand as she lets out a sob. “They were so young! My babies, my little girls…”

 “I know.” Thorin says and he closes the distance between them. Her knees buckle and he catches her as she falls and pulls her trembling body into his. “I know, Dís, and I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

 She weeps into his shoulder and he wraps his arms around her middle. She does not speak and he does not force her to. He does not need her to speak, he already understands her grief.

 “Take me to him.” Dís tells him once her tears have stopped. “Take me to my son.”

 Thorin leads her to the hearth and lifts the babe from the cradle and places him in his mother’s arms for the first time.

 “He’s so small.” She whispers.

 “He is strong.” Thorin tells her. “Truly of the line of Durin.”

 The babe writhes in her unfamiliar arms and opens his mouth and, for the first time, sound slips from his lips. Dís’ face crumples and Thorin does not know if it is from joy or sadness. He does not ask.

 “He needs a name.” Thorin reminds her.

 “Míli and I had names chosen out before, before-.” She cuts herself off and lets out a long, shakey breath. “Badís for a daughter and Kíli for a son.”

 “Kíli.” Thorin repeats and finally the babe has a name.

 Gandalf leaves the settlement two days              after Kíli’s naming and the dwarves of Ered Luin work on rebuilding their lives once more. There is no sign of the pestilence and healers guess that the long, brutal winter months have killed the infection. Still, there is little cause for celebration. Hundreds have died from the sickness and many of them were children. Only a handful of children, so few in number even before the pestilence, have survived and Fíli and Kíli are the youngest inhabitants of Ered Luin by a good many years.

 The villages of men, too, have suffered great losses. Thorin spends spring travelling between the villages with which they have trade agreements with and he and all those who are able-bodied labour in the fields, taking orders from men, and earn their share of the harvest when it is due to be reaped in the autumn months. The work is hard but the dwarves meet the challenge and earn the respect of the men they work with even if their own sense of pride suffers.

 Thorin does not see his nephews or sister very often during these months and he regrets the days and weeks he must spend away from them. Dís is still not fully recovered from her melancholy and Balin writes to him often of days that his sister cannot pull herself out of bed and her growing anger at those who dare check on her well-being. Thorin worries about Dís and her sons and sends her letters as often as he can. He does not get many replies.

 When he returns to his sister’s house one evening at the beginning of summer he is struck with fear at what he finds. Fíli, his blonde hair unkempt and his face dirty, is crouched under the table and scraping the bottom of an empty jam jar with desperate motions and a hungry look while Kíli is crying in his cradle beside the empty hearth, his voice raw from overuse, and the cloth that is meant to be keeping him warm wet with vomit and excrement.

 Fíli bursts into tears upon seeing him and toddles to him with hands stretched out to him. Thorin does not hesitate, taking the boy into his arms and holding him close. Fíli smells as if he hasn’t been bathed in a few days and the front of his tunic is spotted with jam.

 “Where is your mother?” He asks.

 “Sleeping.” Fíli tells him between sobs, his small and sticky fingers gripping his uncle’s hair. “I’m hungry!”

 “I know.” Thorin murmurs. “I will find you something to eat once I have seen to your brother.”

 The smell that surrounds his youngest nephew is enough to make Thorin’s stomach turn and he finds himself cursing his sister as he lifts the babe with one hand from the cradle while his other remains firmly on Fíli’s waist.

 He sits the toddler on the table top and tells him not to move while he searches through the cupboards that had been too high for Fíli to reach in search of food. Amongst the mouldy bread and rotten vegetables he finds a block of cheese that is not entirely hard with age. He breaks some of the softest parts off and gives them to Fíli to tide him over until he can find something more substantial for the boy to eat. For Kíli there is very little he can do to sate his hunger as the only milk he can find is sour and the babe is still too young for the food that his brother is wolfing down. Instead he unwraps the infant from the filthy swaddling cloth, growing angry at the terrible rash he finds and the realisation that Kíli’s skin is cold to the touch. He cleans him as quickly as he can before tucking the babe into the front of his shirt and letting the heat of his skin warm the babe.

 His is shaking with anger when he picks Fíli up once again. The toddler shrinks away from him and begins to cry and Thorin’s heart sinks. He wonders about Fíli’s tears and if there is more to them than a simple reaction to Thorin’s anger.

 He goes to Balin’s house where there is a fire and warm food and fresh milk. Balin heaps steaming piles of chicken, potatoes and carrots onto plates while Thorin warms some milk for the babe whimpering against his chest. Balin cuts up Fíli’s food and spoons the small chunks of carrots into the toddler’s mouth when Fíli struggles to hold his spoon steady. Thorin keeps a careful eye on his oldest nephew as he holds a cup of the warmed milk to his youngest’s mouth. Kíli drinks little despite his obvious hunger. He refuses to stop crying, his voice now hoarse, and fusses and spits up most of what makes it passed his lips. Thorin resolves to send for Oin once he’s certain that the boys aren’t carrying any other ailments.

 “What happened, laddie?” Balin asks once Fíli is full and dozing in his lap and Kíli will drink no more.

 “I could ask you the same thing.” Thorin replies, his face grim. “When was the last time you saw my sister?”

 “Four days ago.” Balin tells him, his face falling. “She wouldn’t let me passed her front door, she said she’d had enough of my bothering her and I had some other things I had to see to. You were supposed to get back the next morning so I let it be.”

 “I was delayed.” Thorin murmurs and guilt softens the anger on his face. “I did not make it back until this evening.”

 “And Dís?”     

 “I do not know.” Thorin tells him, honestly. “I feared I would not be able to control myself if I were to see her.”

 Balins nods and works at a knot in Fíli’s hair, “Dwalin will be home soon, we can send him to go check on her.”

 They heat water over the fire and fill Balin’s copper tub with it. Thorin bathes a sleepy Fíli, washing away days’ worth of dirt with gentle hands, while Balin holds Kíli. Thorin is careful to examine the toddler for any kind of mistreatment beyond his sister’s neglect and is relieved when he doesn’t find any.

 Dwalin arrives while Thorin is towelling Fíli dry and leaves almost immediately after sharing a few quiet words with his brother. Balin provides Thorin with an old night shirt left by Gidís the year before once Fíli is dry. It swamps his frame but it keeps him warm and within minutes he is fast asleep in the stuffed arm chair next to the fire.

 Kíli wriggles in his grasp as Thorin holds him in the warm water and Thorin is scared that he’ll drop him. He doesn’t. He finds that bathing Kíli is much more difficult than bathing Fíli. He has to be more gentle despite the increased difficulty in removing dried bodily messes from sensitive skin. All the while he cannot help but be amazed at how small Kíli still is. He is bigger than he was and yet, at nearly a year of age, he is barely bigger than Fíli was on the day that Thorin first held him in his arms. He wonders if Kíli is doomed to be small for the rest of his life but can’t bring himself to be disappointed. It is enough that the boy is alive and well.

 Dwalin returns before Kíli’s bath is finished with Oin in tow. His face is grim and, as Thorin’s heart sinks, his grip on the squirming Kíli slips. The babe sinks to the bottom of the tub before Thorin has chance to catch him.

 The world seems to stand still. His blood turns to ice and fear causes his limbs to freeze. It seems like hours before he manages to get them functioning once more and he is terrified he has killed his nephew even as he pulls Kíli from the water.   

 Oin takes the babe from his hands as soon as he is brought back to the surface. The healer rubs his chest as the babe spits up water and Thorin drops his head into his hands. Guilt and anger and grief flood through him and he cannot bring himself to look at the screaming Kíli or comfort the newly awakened and crying Fíli.

 His sister is dead and he has nearly drowned her infant son. The world beyond his hands is spinning wildly and terror such as he has not felt since Smaug attacked Erebor races through him. He is now solely responsible for his young nephews and he does not think he can bear the heavy weight that has suddenly landed on his shoulders. He is not meant to be a father. He is not good enough, not strong enough. He cannot be the parent that these boys so desperately need in their life.

 “She took something.” He hears Dwalin’s voice say from faraway. “I don’t know what.”

 Thorin does not mourn Dís. Grief had long robbed him of his sister.

 Oin continues to massage Kíli’s chest for a few minutes more, until he is sure that the baby doesn’t have any more water left in his lungs, and Balin holds Fíli close, stroking his golden hair and whispering nonsense to him until he falls back to sleep once more.

 Dwalin hangs a blanket by the fire to warm it as Oin dries the babe and examines him from head to toe, his brows furrowing with concern.

 Thorin clears his throat but his voice is still rough when he speaks, “is he well?”

 “The rash will be painful for a few days but I have a salve that should have it healed up quite nicely.” Oin tells him. He accepts the warmed blanket from Dwalin and wraps the babe in it. “It is not that which concerns me, however. The babe is severely underweight-.”

 “And much too small.” Thorin says, sharply. “I know but he will grow. He must.”

 The expression on Oin’s face is difficult to read and Thorin does not try to. He leaves soon afterwards - once he’s explained the importance of keeping Kíli warm, how often to apply the salve and that water should be mixed with milk so that it is not too rich for the babe’s upset stomach - and Thorin follows him through the door only minutes later.

 He does not return until the following morning and he does not answer Balin when the elder asks him about his whereabouts. He sits with his nephews and Balin and Dwalin for breakfast and speaks very little. Fíli’s smiles are easy this morning and he bounces happily on Dwalin’s knee as he stuffs freshly baked bread dripping with honey into his mouth, smearing the sticky substance all over his face, night shirt and Dwalin. The warrior does not scold him, even when Fíli gets honey in his beard, but instead smiles at the child.

 He asks for his mother only once throughout the course of the morning and Thorin is not sure what to make of this. His heart thuds painfully in his chest at the thought of the boy, being only six years old, is already so used to the idea of loss that he does not even question it any more.

 “What are you going to do, laddie?” Balin asks once breakfast is finished and Fíli has been cleaned and sent to play with toys left over from a previous visit.

 “I do not know.” Thorin says and it is the truth. He gazes at Kíli dozing in Balin’s arms, one tiny fist clutching the old dwarf’s beard tightly, and sadness grips him. “I cannot raise them. The responsibility I have to our people is too great. Yet…”

 “Yet you can’t stand to not be there to watch them grow.” Dwalin finishes for him and Thorin finds he cannot meet his friend’s eye.

 They bury Dís the next day.

 Thorin holds his oldest nephew, his heir, in his arms as Dís’ body is covered with earth and is torn between grief and pride at Fíli’s stoicism. He does not ask what is happening or squirm in his uncle’s grip and ask to be let down. He seems to understand the solemnity of the occasion and his hold on Thorin’s tunic is firm. Kíli squirms in Dwalin’s hold, the rash making him miserable, and lets out a whimper every few minutes but does not cry.

 The sky is dark overhead and does not wait until they are home to burst.


End file.
